Camp Arcanum

by Josef Matulich

  Marc stepped up and hacked at the thing, using the shovel like an ax. The shovel blade sank into the heart of the mass with no apparent damage. Tendrils sprang out of the mass and wrapped around the handle in an effort to pull Marc in. He could feel the wood creaking through his palms. The sound the shadow made was almost a pleased chuckle.

  Marc screamed in rage and pulled with all his weight, cutting through the core of the shadow-thing. It ripped to pieces and the fragments evaporated into the darkness. The others screeched and raged and flailed their extremities, but retreated into the cover of the deep forest.

  Marc had no idea how he did this, but guessed it was a combination pure anger and a Craftsman shovel. As he stood there trying to make sense of it, Brenwyn was already in the clearing and calling out to him.

  “Stay with me, Marc!”

  Marc sprinted to catch up.

  “We need a circle, big enough for both of us to stand.” Brenwyn pointed at the ground at her feet.

  Marc scratched a six-foot circle in the ground in seconds and jammed the shovel upright into the earth. Brenwyn dropped her cloak and did a condensed version of the circle rituals in hurried whispers. As she drew the last pentacle in the air, she finally relaxed.

  “We should be safe here for a while,” she said.

  “Good,” he rasped. Actually, he was jazzed on adrenaline and would have liked having something threaten them so he could beat it into a pulp.

  Brenwyn threw herself at Marc and kissed him passionately, but it didn’t seem to be as much fun as it had been fifteen minutes ago. She settled back on her heels and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek pressed to his chest.

  “I am so glad nothing hurt you,” she murmured.

  “I’m pretty happy we aren’t dead either,” he replied. Still, he was too deep in his fight-or-flight response to enjoy a cuddle in the moonlight. “Could you do me a big favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Could you drop the woman of mystery crap and explain the predicament I dashed into against your advice?”

  Brenwyn kept her head on his chest, probably to avoid his eyes.

  “The shadows—” she started haltingly. “A friend of mine in the metaphysics department—he called them Qliphotic elements—outcast remnants from the time before the Creation. They have no place in either the spirit or material realms.”

  Marc sighed. This was all too familiar.

  “That’s what Allen always used to talk about.”

  Brenwyn chuckled into his chest.

  “Just because he was insane did not mean he was wrong.”

  Marc gently pulled her away so he could look into her eyes.

  “Brenwyn—darling—you have an impressive gift for answering questions without answering questions. What is happening here?”

  Brenwyn swallowed and looked guilty.

  “In small words, slowly spoken: they are demons.”

  He did a quick analysis in his head: demons from outside Time and Space were real and on Steve’s property. Supernatural entities that could do physical damage, and he just whacked one with a shovel.

  “Demons.” He pointed at the men around the bonfire who seemed to be ignoring them still. “And those guys are summoning them?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Rat’s ass.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, still a little crooked after twenty years and calculated the odds of nine against one, plus demons. “This isn’t going to happen. Steve would never get liability coverage if the insurance companies found out.”

  Brenwyn looked at him as if she doubted Marc’s sanity. He doubted his sanity, but he couldn’t let his fears keep him trapped inside a circle scratched in the dirt.

  “I have to be practical. Either that, or I have an even bigger breakdown.” He pulled his shovel out of the ground and leaned it across his shoulder. “I think I’ll have a word with those trouble-makers.”

  “You cannot go out there!” Brenwyn clutched his arm in a death grip.

  “I can and I will!” Marc pulled his arm free with a jerk. He was suddenly furious, though it would take him too long to figure out all the “whys” or “wherefores.” “If you trust my abilities as much as you say, you’d better never do that again.”

  “Please do not be angry,” she said. Her eyes were their normal violet-grey and they were filling with tears. He wasn’t going to give her a chance to use that as leverage.

  “No, I have to be angry,” he snapped. “Seething with rage.”

  Marc took up his shovel in both hands like a poleax. With a growl, he stepped out of the circle and strode forcefully towards the other. With a look over his shoulder, Marc saw Brenwyn watching with one hand over her mouth. She still clutched that black-handled dagger. He turned and focused on the trouble in front of him.

  The shadows gathered around Marc as he neared the edge of the circle. Several heads, spines, and claws formed above him as spidery legs drove into the ground behind him. Marc stepped right up to the biggest and ugliest of them all.

  “Look, I’m giving you one chance,” he shouted up at the demon. “Get out of my way. I have business with these guys.”

  The demons gathered closer, seeming to laugh at Marc in a sound that went right through his bones.

  “Don’t screw with me!” he shouted. “There are a lot better things I could be doing right now and I’m in a piss-poor mood. So, unless you want me to rearrange your sorry, ectoplasmic asses, you will—get—the—Hell—out of my face!”

  Marc snarled and pressed towards the demon. It backed away, from either fear or surprise.

  The third option, Marc realized a moment too late, was a feint. As the first demon withdrew, other shadows attacked Marc from the rear and sides. Remembering what had worked before, Marc turned and charged like a madman. An overhead stroke split a shadow skull with six mismatched eyes. A backhand slash cut through several limbs and claws. Over and over again, Marc screamed slashed and spun, using strokes and flourishes worthy of a samurai. Each blow that connected ripped chunks of shadow out of the demons. The maimed creatures retreated.

  Marc straightened his clothing and dusted himself off as the shadows withdrew. He felt fine, not even breathing hard.

  Marc loved adrenaline.

  “Damned straight,” he grunted.

  Marc looked over his shoulder to see Brenwyn staring at him in absolute shock. From the slack-armed, heads-forward postures of the men in black robes, Marc would say they were shocked too. Only the man in the red robes seemed to take the spectacle in stride, gently applauding his performance like a well-played tee shot.

  Marc stepped up to the edge of the circle to address the men in robes. Their circle was far less tidy than the coven’s. The bonfire was low and lopsided and the ground around it was littered with candles, tarot cards and assorted crap. Something like reddish-brown sausages hung from strings tied to overhead branches, dozens of them. As Marc stepped up to outside of the circle, he could see they were dead animals like squirrels and rabbits. They had been skinned and hung there as either sacrifices or the most disgusting version of a piñata he could imagine.

  “Okay guys, the party’s over,” he shouted in a loud, clear voice. “I gave only one group permission for a bonfire and pagan rituals. So, pack up your Ozzy Ozbourne records, put out your black candles, and get your asses off my property before I call the cops.”

  One of the men in black robes produced a knife from his robes and prepared to throw it at Marc

  “You’re going to die, old man!” The voice coming out of the concealing hood had the adenoidal tones of a teenaged boy.

  Great, Marc thought, children.

  The man in red robes threw up a gloved hand in warning, but the Problem Child wasn’t paying attention.

  “No, you idiot!” Red Robes’ voice was soft, effeminate, and strangely familiar. Marc decided to worry about identifying them later, once they were all unconscious.

  The black-robed boy lobbed the knife at Marc. Marc swiftly turne
d sideways and swung up the shovel to protect his head and throat. The knife struck the shovel blade and fell at Marc’s feet. Marc leaned over and picked up a rock to return fire. The rock connected with his assailant’s black-clad head and the boy dropped like a bag of wet cement.

  “To quote a bad movie,” Marc grunted “Why does evil get all the retards?”

  Red Robes, definitely the group’s leader, inclined his head to Marc.

  “Excellent technique,” he said in that annoyingly familiar voice. Then, he swept his hand across the circle, encompassing his flock. “But there are still eight of us, Marc, and you’re a long way from the police.”

  Can I take these guys in a fair fight? Marc thought. Marc did a quick threat assessment: eight opponents still standing; assorted knives, sickles, even a sword in their hands; a large bonfire, which could either be a threat or play to his advantage. It didn’t look easy.

  Then, how unfair can I make it?

  Of course, there were still dozens of protean demons circling the whole mess. His hole card was the fact that, unlike Marc, the boys in robes were more afraid of the demons than the demons were of them.

  “If that’s the way it’s going to play out,” he said diffidently, “I have just one thing to say before we dance—”

  Marc swept his shovel through a foot-wide piece of the chalk line in the dirt, thus breaking the protective circle. Marc stepped back and let the shadows flow freely into the circle from all points.

  “Start bailing, boys,” he shouted, “’cause there’s a hole in the dike!”

  Marc had often used the phrase “all Hell broke loose.” This was the first time he saw it actually happen. Demons harried the men in black robes, who ran around as if their dresses had caught fire. Red Robes stepped backwards into a circle within the circle and chanting something Marc assumed to be another spell. It was hard to hear over the others screaming like little girls.

  As if the carnage and confusion weren’t enough, several shadows flew into the dead animals hanging from the trees around the fire pit. The huge volumes of twisted organic forms pumping their way into the tiny corpses was the most disgusting thing Marc had seen in a very long time. The skinless rodents pulsed and twitched erratically and then twisted around to chew themselves free of their bonds. As they flopped to the ground, the undead, skinless bunnies and squirrels joined the fray in attacks on unprotected ankles.

  The boys in black robes responded with appropriate terror. Marc for the moment stood in a quiet corner and enjoyed the show.

  Two undead vermin crawled into the robes of the boy Marc dropped first. The Problem Child suddenly regained consciousness and ran screaming into the darkness.

  One of his compatriots, a young man with multiple piercings and spiked green and yellow hair, flailed by like a windmill. A demon was savaging his head. It looked like a shadow octopus trying to pry open a Technicolor clam. The punk Satanist had a flaming piece of wood in his hands and he was trying to dislodge his attacker without clubbing himself into unconsciousness. The backswing of one attempt caught Marc by surprise and between the legs. It hurt, but it was far from incapacitating. Marc caught both the demon and the back of the punk’s head with the flat of the shovel. With a ringing thud, the punk dropped to the ground and the demon slithered away, shedding chunks of bruised ectoplasm.

  One of the other black robes saw an opening and charged Marc with a knife. Marc sidestepped him and chopped at his wrist with the shovel’s handle. The knife bounced away and Marc’s latest opponent clutched his right arm.

  Another target ran close by, pursued by a small pack of undead vermin. Marc clotheslined him with the shovel handle. After that black robe fell flat on his back amidst the skinless creatures, Marc returned to his previous opponent. That one was still nursing his injured wrist. Marc chopped the back of his legs, which dropped him to his knees. Marc finished the job with a sweeping blow to the face, again with the flat of the shovel. The demon-monger fell to the ground, his face still concealed in his hood.

  That’s four of nine down, Marc thought. Almost halfway home.

  Marc now stepped over to the one he’d clotheslined. He punted two squirrel zombies off his black-robed chest and across the clearing. He kicked the downed man in the mid-section twice for good measure.

  Marc made a quick scan of the chaos. To his left, he saw one of the undead rodents going for the face of fallen youth.

  “That’s not sporting!” he grunted. He wanted these kids off his property, not eaten by monsters.

  Marc scooped up the rodent with the shovel and flung it across the fire pit. Purely by accident, it hit another black robe high on the chest. The skinless beast tried to gnaw that boy’s face with great pointy teeth.

  That should keep that one occupied. Let’s say five down.

  “Marc! Behind you!” Brenwyn shouted.

  Marc wheeled around to see one of the demons roaring and charging directly for his face. Marc roared in response and swung the shovel’s blade into what passed for its head. The shadow drove itself onto the blade and sliced itself in half. Its mass went off to either side like a split banana and then evaporated. Marc was breathing hard, the edges of his vision blurring blood red. He was beginning to realize that, at thirty-eight, he might be little too old for this kind of thing.

  Suddenly, the back of his head exploded in pain and bright colored lights while sparks and ash showered around him. Marc shook his head and turned to see one of the black robes holding a burning log in his hand. He looked as surprised as Marc.

  Marc went to one knee, stunned but not out. The black robe must have realized what he had just done and that he’d better finish the job before Marc could do worse. The young man struck Marc across the shoulders, but with only enough force to increase the pain from the first hit. Marc blocked the third blow with his left forearm. The long bones didn’t break, but they hurt like a bitch. It was the inspiration Marc needed to put all of his weight into a punch that connected a few inches above his assailant’s pelvic bone.

  The black robe’s knees buckled. He dropped the log and fell to the ground with a whimper. Marc pulled himself to his feet with the shovel’s aid. He kicked the downed teenager in the head, just to be sure.

  Six, he smirked to himself. Six the hard way.

  Brenwyn was screaming something, but he was having trouble hearing her above the chaos.

  “Marc, you’ve got to get away from there!” she repeated.

  “Don’t worry, I can take these candy asses!” Marc yelled back. “They’re just kids!” Besides, retreat was out of the question. He doubted he could outrun any of the kids still standing.

  Marc off handedly slammed another black robe across the back of the head with the shovel. His unconscious body slid across the clearing to halt in the dirt beside the fire pit.

  Seven! Yes!

  Brenwyn was shouting at him again.

  “You do not understand! You have to get far away from the man in red RIGHT NOW!!”

  Marc was starting to get annoyed with all this yelling. Didn’t she know that he was trying to concentrate? Distracted, a guy could get himself hurt in a situation like this. Even more hurt than he was already, that is.

  Marc’s battered reverie was disturbed by a sound he’d come to hate since he arrived Arcanum: a sound like the tolling of an iron bell. It meant that magick was happening nearby.

  Marc looked over at the man in red that so concerned Brenwyn. He was pointing a ritual sword at the fire. In response, the flames rose high and formed into the shape of a winged serpent.

  I see now why Brenwyn might be concerned.

  The flame-serpent flew from the pit and made a lightning fast circuit of the clearing. Marc felt its heat across his face and he hunkered down near the firepit. With its head, wings, and tail, the thing struck at the shadow demons and undead rodents. Within five laps, all of them were either driven off or destroyed. The only things left standing were the four boys in black robes and the one in red. Marc wondered h
ow he could have lost count so badly.

  In its last pass, the fire serpent twitched its tail in passing and caught Marc across his back. He felt a burning pain across his shoulder blades and smelled scorched leather and rare steak.

  The fire serpent circled and came at Marc again, its tail burning another patch through the left leg of his jeans. He dropped, muttering particularly obscene variations on “rat’s ass” and tried to avoid the four black robes still standing.

  Marc kicked one of them at the side of the knee, dropping the boy on the other side of the firepit. Marc came to a low crouch just as the firebird swept in directly at his face. Marc threw himself out of the way, but just a moment too late. Now, Marc smelled burning hair along with leather and meat. The skin of his forehead felt tight and hot, indicating first degree burns at least. When he patted tenderly at his eyebrows and hairline, fine ash fell across his eyes.

  “No, Jeremiah! Stop it!” Brenwyn screamed.

  Now, Marc knew why Red Robe’s voice sounded so familiar.

  “Jeremiah?” Marc muttered. “That clinches it!”

  Marc rolled to the fire pit while avoiding another attempt on his life. One more punk in black robes was trying to stave in his head with a flaming log. A low blow from Marc took away that boy’s will to fight.

  Marc grabbed a fist-sized rock from the fire pit, which made a sizzling sound as he wrapped his hand around it. Overriding the pain, he rolled to his feet and hurled the rock at Jeremiah’s head at point blank range. The missile connected and Jeremiah went down like a sack of hammers.

  The fire serpent hung motionless in midair without guidance. The remaining black robes looked from Jeremiah’s inert form to the firebird, apparently just as dependent on his orders.

  “Wind blow, Fire die, as I will it so mote it be!” Brenwyn intoned behind him.

  A gust of wind rushed through the clearing, and a sound like an ancient gong echoed through the trees. The bonfire sputtered out and the flaming, flying serpent dispersed. Marc nodded gratefully.